Tunnel
by sinemoras09
Summary: Mohinder and Zane driving in the night. Angst. Takes place just before Unexpected.


"She can't even lift her head," Zane says, and Mohinder sags. Nine hours of driving only to come to another dead end: the cramped, stale bedroom of an invalid teenager curled up on a hospital bed, her arms flexed and her legs rigid and turned unnaturally inward. "Decorticate posturing," Mohinder murmurs, and he glances back at Zane, who looks just as tired and frustrated as Mohinder feels. "She's irreparably brain-damaged. If she has an ability, there's no way we would know it."

Mohinder turns to the hospice nurse and offers her a weak smile.

"Thank you for your time," Mohinder says. It takes all of his effort not to scream.

.

They're driving now, and it's getting late. The freeway is dark and the rain drums against the windshield, mixing with the sound of the radio and the windshield wipers droning in the background. Dale Smither is the next name on the list, but Dale's all the way in Montana. After the disaster with the quadriplegic, Mohinder secretly wishes he could just drop everything and drive back to New York, but he knows Zane would hear none of it. Really, Mohinder doesn't know what he would do without Zane to keep him company. He's the only thing keeping Mohinder's sanity intact.

A truck overtakes them and Mohinder blinks, startled. He can hear Zane moving, the soft rustle of his shirt as he changes positions in the car seat.

"You look out of it. Do you want me to drive?" Zane asks.

"I'm fine," Mohinder says. "I'm just...distracted. I'll be alright."

"You're not alright, you look like you're going to pass out," Zane says. He reaches over and shuts the radio off, watching him with what Mohinder can only describe as a worried expression on his face. "Look, there's a rest stop coming ahead. Just pull in there and we can switch seats. We won't lose any time, I promise."

Mohinder sighs. "You're probably right," he says. "Thanks."

They switch seats and drive for what seems like years, and even though Mohinder was the one who plotted the course, it's as if they have no real destination. In the closed equability of the car, Mohinder begins to lose track of time, falling asleep, then waking up, then falling asleep again. And all the while, Zane keeps driving, his face pinched and his mouth a twisted line.

"You look positively sour," Mohinder says, finally. "Although, I really don't blame you. I was disappointed as well."

"Disappointed is an understatement," Zane says. He signals left and accelerates, passing the truck in front of them. "We're in Pennsylvania now, if you were wondering."

"Pennsylvania." Mohinder sucks in his breath. "And how far away is that from Montana?"

Shadows pass over Zane's face, and it's as if he's looking at something far away. "A while," Zane says, finally. He glances back at Mohinder and explains, "We're about halfway through the state, and on the map it's about 1800 miles. We're doing about 75, 80 right now, so probably another 22 hours. Assuming I-80 doesn't get too jammed up."

"Well I'm glad you're with me," Mohinder says. "I don't have the head to figure these things out. Not to mention the stamina it takes to drive that long."

"Don't sell yourself short: you drove for a pretty large chunk of it," Zane says. "And it's just division. I'm sure you've done higher math during your training."

"Yes, and I was terrible at it," Mohinder says. "My father used to joke that I should have become a philosopher, or a poet. And I don't know, I suppose he was right. But genetics is my life right now and I can't turn my back on it. Even if we're on a cross-country goose chase, I just can't."

Mohinder rests his head against the glass. He watches the cars streaking past them, the bright yellow light of their headbeams cutting through the dark.

"Sometimes I feel like this is a fool's errand," Mohinder says. "Half the people on this list are either dead or missing, and it's incredibly frustrating. Especially after today. Did you know, I spoke with that girl's mother earlier, and before the accident, she supposedly could run at superhuman speeds? I mean, if that's not ironic, I don't know what is--even if she got her higher functions back, her limbs are so atrophied she couldn't even sit up."

"It's just a setback," Zane says. "I have a feeling the next person will be more promising."

"I suppose," Mohinder says.

"Don't give up," Zane says. "What you're doing is extremely difficult. And you've already accomplished so much. You shouldn't be so down on yourself."

"I don't even know why I'm doing this," Mohinder says. "It's not even my research--it's my father's. I could be running my own laboratory right now, but I'm not. I'm living out of my suitcase, hunting for people who won't even talk to me. I just feel like I'm in my father's shadow. I can't escape it. And ever since his death..." Mohinder gestures helplessly. "I don't know," he says, finally. "I think I'm just tired." He looks out the window again, the lighted signs and tall black trees passing into the night.

"My father never thought much of me, either," Zane says suddenly.

Mohinder shifts and turns to face him.

"I'm a disappointment," Zane says. "Nothing I did was ever good enough. Even when I took over the family business. People just don't understand how hard it is, living under your family's shadow."

"Was your father a musician?" Mohinder asks.

Zane hesitates, a catch in his throat. "No," he says. "No, I'm doing what I want, now."

"That's fantastic," Mohinder says. "You're doing what you want--you're an accomplished musician. You're following your dreams. You should be happy, most people don't have that luxury."

"Sometimes I think I am," Zane says. "Happy, I mean. But mostly I just feel...unsatisfied. Like I can do more, become something greater than myself." His voice drops to a low whisper, and with the rain and the windshield wipers, Mohinder has to strain to hear him.

"Sometimes I don't like myself," Zane says, nakedly. "Sometimes I wish I could change that."

Mohinder glances back at him, and he's shocked to see the wetness around Zane's eyes. But it disappears as quickly as it comes, and Zane flashes Mohinder an embarrassed smile.

"Wow, I must be really tired," Zane says, a little too loudly. "Maybe we should get a room somewhere, I don't think I can drive anymore."

"Zane, it's okay," Mohinder says. "I think we all feel inadequate from time to time. I don't think it's anything to be ashamed about."

"I'm fine," Zane says. "I just hope this Dale Smither guy isn't another quadriplegic."

They go under a tunnel. Black replaces the blue night and the only light Mohinder is conscious of comes from side lights of the tunnel walls, the only sound a furious thudding of tires on pavement. His eyes are fixed on the road and on the expanse of sky at the tunnel's end, the light yawning like an open mouth. And then he thinks of the girl curled on her side, and how her arms were curved like the wings of a broken bird.

"22 more hours," Mohinder says, but Zane doesn't answer. 


End file.
